Hard Cold Winter

by Glen Erik Hamilton

  “Sure.” There it was. The dry palm wanting for grease. I was throwing money around like confetti lately.

  “I got about eighty bucks in my pocket,” I said, “not counting bus fare. You give me everything you have on Broch, we’ll decide what that’s worth.”

  “You’re joking me.”

  “That’s the offer. You want a drink, too, it’ll come out of your cut.” My beer bottle was empty and I clinked it. “Or do I leave now?”

  “Hang on, hang on. I can tell you who T. X. Broch is. He’s a bear trap. He sets up big-money games and tries to get suckers to overextend, so he can squeeze them long-term. He’s into legit businesses, too, used cars and auto lube joints, I think. But most of his money comes from squeezing vig out of guys.”

  “Do people really still say that? I thought ‘vig’ went out with phone books.”

  “Hey, screw you, too.”

  “You said he’s the house for big games. Does he run sports?”

  Freddy traced one of the innumerable scratches in the tabletop with a nicotine-stained fingertip. “You wanna stay clear of him, Van.”

  “Big Bad Broch.”

  “I’m not shitting you. He may not be the Gambino family but he’s still plenty. One of my regulars? He had a sure thing and he wanted to lay it down big. More than I could cover. I heard he borrowed twenty thousand off of Broch.”

  “And the sure thing wasn’t.”

  “And the next thing I know, the poor son of a bitch is in the ICU at Overlake. Broch’s guys took their time on him, with the number of things they broke.”

  “Busting bones is kind of the daily grind, for a loan shark.”

  “You don’t understand me. I mean Broch did this the same frigging day. He knew my guy couldn’t pay it back, not anytime in the foreseeable. Broch coulda milked him forever, but how much would he get? A hundred a week? He let my guy make his bet, and by the time it went in the shitter Broch had already decided the poor prick was worth a lot more as an object lesson. The twenty large didn’t mean squat.”

  “Decisive.”

  “Fucking nuts.”

  “Has Broch made any permanent lessons?”

  Freddy stared at me. “Eating through a tube isn’t enough for you?”

  “I mean it. Is Broch a killer?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe? It’s not anybody’s first choice, not even for an animal like T. X. Broch.”

  He was right. Loan sharks dealt in pain, not death. You can’t squeeze a dead guy. Murder didn’t even make a great example to others, because if enough people heard about the killing, the cops would, too. Better to populate a whole ward at Overlake than to knock one deadbeat off.

  Broch lent money. Kend needed money, if he wanted to keep gambling. Broch probably ran the ghost book, too. But why might Broch kill Kend? Haymes still had his trust-fund thousands coming in every month. Plenty more juice to be had there. Was Kend in so deep that he had threatened to go to the cops?

  Freddy was watching me, not wanting to interrupt my reverie.

  I put my four twenties down on the table. “Okay. I’ll give you what I’ve got. But you keep your nose up. Tell me if you hear anything more about Broch in the next week.”

  “I’ll ask around, yes indeed,” said Fogh, taking the bills and folding them three times before slipping them into his cardigan.

  “Good luck with Saturday.”

  Fogh nodded and waved a happy hand at the bartender, who continued to give me the stink-eye as I left. He was warming to me, I could tell.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IN KEEPING WITH ITS name, A. Borealis had an arctic motif. The glass ceiling of the rooftop bar was held up by sandstone pillars, each carved with Inuit-inspired designs. Eagles and humpback whales and caribou. The cocktails on the menu started at fourteen bucks. I ordered a rye, neat. If I enjoyed it, I could mortgage my house and have a second round.

  From where I sat at the center bar, the mirror allowed me to watch most of the tables. Borealis was a big place, designed for large wedding parties and small convention crowds on the weekends. The midweek rush of business people from the Mansfield Georgian hotel downstairs still left plenty of elbow room.

  Most of the business types were still wearing their suits, though the men had loosened their ties and the women had slipped off their high heels under the tables. The few who weren’t completely engrossed by their phones or laptops engaged in animated chatter with one another. In my jeans and flannel shirt, I was the gamekeeper crashing the country estate’s cocktail hour.

  Barrett and Parson Yorke came off the elevator lobby into the bar. I knew they were siblings from their social media posts, but in life I never would have guessed. One or both may have been adopted. Barrett was recognizably the petite fashion plate I’d seen in the snapshots. The honeyed bob had been restyled in a wedge cut that fell over one eye. Parson was a very big boy. Not a square slab like Willard, but round, with a midsection that made his head look undersized by comparison. The shearling coat he was wearing must have set him back two grand at the Big ’n’ Tall. He towered behind his sister, carrying her coat. The princess and the palace guard. Or the whole palace.

  They scanned the crowd and I raised a hand. Barrett glided across the room, a sharpened shadow in a black sleeveless blouse and black pants. She extended a hand to shake, frowning.

  “How d’you do,” she said.

  “I’m Van,” I said. Parson was inexpressive, and his handshake was soft and damp. Still, I had the feeling he could have squeezed until my fingers gushed out between his like toothpaste.

  I motioned for them to sit at the bar, but Barrett chose a table and sat at it without a word. Parson followed. I took my drink from the bar—still a few dollars of liquor left in the glass—and sat with them. A server came over immediately and took their drink orders. Vodka for Barrett and a Newcastle for her brother.

  “You knew Elana,” Barrett said to me.

  “Back when we were kids. Our families are friendly.”

  “Then you don’t really know her now,” Parson said. He was younger than I’d first guessed, perhaps only twenty or twenty-one, and his mud-brown goatee was more attempt than reality.

  “Well enough to say hello. That’s why I was at the cabin.”

  “Can you prove that?” said Barrett. “You could be anyone. We’ve already had calls from the press, wanting quotes about Kend.”

  “I can prove I know Elana’s uncle Willard,” I said. “He’s the one who told me she was on the Peninsula.”

  “That’s not quite what I want.”

  One well-tailored young businessman two tables over found Barrett much more interesting than his cell phone. It was understandable. She was very poised, as cool as the single large sapphire stud pierced through her upper ear. The gem was real. I wasn’t sure about the ice princess act. Her black-coffee eyes gave off a challenge.

  “Okay. How’s this?” I said. “Kend and Elana drove her blue Volvo hatchback up to the cabin. Sometime after that, Elana was shot twice in the face at close range, and then Kend probably put the gun to his own head. Both of them died immediately. I’ve seen enough gunshot wounds to be sure. The cabin door was left open, so animals and decomp had a couple of days to whittle away at both of your friends before I happened along. The last thing I did there was drag Kend’s body, which was mostly in one piece, back inside to protect what was left.”

  It was cruel. Maybe crueler than I’d intended. But it had the right effect. They were both openmouthed and pale. In Barrett’s case, paler than usual.

  “I’m sorry,” Barrett said. “That—that must have been awful.”

  “Worse for them. Tell me about their relationship.”

  “Their relationship?”

  “Were they happy? Did they fight? Was one of them in trouble? I’m trying to understand what happened at the cabin.”

  “I-I don’t think they were fighting. They argued some, but not like angry arguments.”

  “What did they argu
e about?”

  “Oh. Who said what when, and who was right about so-and-so.” Barrett shook her head minutely. “Inconsequentials.”

  I turned to Parson. “How about you? When was the last time you saw them?”

  “I saw Kend last week,” he said.

  “At the cabin?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “There were lots of new tire tracks around. Somebody visited them.”

  Parson frowned. He suspected trickery, but maybe that was normal for his attitude. He seemed easy to trick.

  “It wasn’t me,” he said.

  “So you believe the rumors are true?” said Barrett, regaining some of her earlier self-possession. “That Kend killed Elana?”

  “No,” said Parson flatly.

  “I don’t know if he did or not,” I said. “Just what the scene looked like.”

  “He didn’t.”

  Barrett reached over and squeezed her brother’s prize ham forearm. “Parson was a great friend to Kend,” she said, smiling sadly at him. “And Kend looked out for Parson.”

  “He was my best friend,” said Parson.

  “Then I’m sorry, Parson,” I said. “I know what it’s like to lose guys who’ll have your back, no matter what.”

  He nodded, looking at the table.

  “Barrett, it’s probably time for your own special friend to join us,” I said, pointing to the businessman in the navy suit. He saw me pointing and scowled.

  She flushed. “That’s just Charlie.”

  “No point in Charlie sitting alone.”

  She waved him over and he came, reluctantly. By the time we shook hands he’d apparently decided to pretend the whole secret-agent thing didn’t happen.

  “Charlie Shearman,” he said. He was a GQ-cover match for Barrett, with curly dirty-blond hair and sideburns. His navy suit had been fitted down to the quarter inch, until it was practically scuba gear.

  “We were telling Van that we don’t know why Kend might have done what he did,” Barrett said. “What the police suspect he did,” she amended, off Parson’s hurt look.

  “Hmmm. And is that all you’re wondering about?” Shearman said. He sat down and placed a protective hand over Barrett’s.

  “I was curious whether you use a laser level to get those sideburns just so,” I said. Shearman’s jaw clenched.

  “Van described the cabin to us, Charlie,” said Barrett. “It sounded horrible.”

  “I’ll bet,” he said. “Enough to file a mental distress suit against the Haymes family, if the official ruling goes his way.”

  “Charlie!”

  “You’re a lawyer for them?” I said.

  “I’m a financial consultant,” Shearman said, like I’d impugned his honor.

  “A junior partner with Lyman and Goode,” said Barrett.

  “Good for you,” I said.

  He scowled. “Go to hell.”

  “All right,” I said. “We got off on the wrong foot. Was the idea to hang around until I left Barrett and Parson, and then follow me and make sure I was who I claimed?”

  “You can hardly blame us,” Barrett said.

  “You’re protecting your friends. I get that. But the idea of spending years wrangling a settlement out of Kend’s family makes me want to jump off this roof.”

  Civilians had a range of reactions to my facial scars. Some people pretended to ignore them, like Barrett, who had glanced once and then studiously kept her eyes on mine. Charlie Shearman couldn’t help examining the white grooves every time I looked at someone else. I wasn’t sure Parson had even noticed my scars at all.

  Shearman’s eyes flicked back to me. “So this isn’t some angle?”

  “I’ve had enough stress in the past ten years. I don’t need to pretend to having more.”

  He didn’t reply, but as the server took his drink order, he asked me if I wanted another round. I took it as a peace offering.

  “No matter what happened up at the cabin,” I said, “nobody wins. But the cops are likely to ask Kend’s friends all kinds of rough questions, looking for motive. Like whether he was ever violent with her, or anybody else. Or if he got into fights.”

  Head shakes all around. Parson was getting agitated again.

  “Was he taking anything?”

  “He wasn’t some drug addict, if that’s what you mean,” Shearman said.

  “What about antidepressants? Mood elevators?”

  “God, isn’t everyone?” said Barrett. “But Kend was a very positive guy. It was part of why everyone liked him so much.”

  Shearman’s eyes flickered to his girlfriend, then down. I remembered the picture of Barrett and Trudy Dobbs in Kend’s apartment. Facedown in a desk drawer, instead of up on the wall with the rest.

  “What about money?” I said.

  “What about it?” said Shearman.

  “Did he have any? I know his family does. But that’s different.”

  “We wouldn’t be so rude as to ask.”

  “Even as a junior partner at Lyman and Goode?”

  Barrett stiffened. “It’s not a requirement for our friendship. No matter what you might think.”

  “I don’t care about your entrance criteria,” I said. “I want to know if Kend was broke.”

  “We were friends with Elana, too. Unless you believe she was some token.”

  Damn it. I was digging myself a hole, and fast.

  Worse, the whole private-school bunch of them seemed to be genuinely out of the loop. None of them was giving any sign that they might know of the ghost book, or T. X. Broch, or even that they knew Kend had liked to gamble.

  “Your other friend didn’t show tonight,” I said. “Trudy Dobbs.”

  “She’s away on vacation,” said Barrett.

  “Away where?”

  Barrett downed the last half of her second vodka rocks in an impressive shot, and exhaled slowly through her nose. “Trudy’s my best friend. And Elana’s. If you have any questions for her, I’ll ask her myself.”

  Shearman took out his wallet and handed an Amex card to the server as he passed. The Black Card, of course.

  “Sorry we couldn’t help you more,” he said to me. “We’re all very upset, and we just want to make sure Kend gets every consideration.”

  Over any considerations for Elana, was what I took from that. Closing ranks.

  Shearman sipped the last of his scotch. Parson’s beer was mostly untouched. We all stood up. Shearman took Barrett’s thin leather coat from Parson and draped it over her shoulders. He led Barrett back toward the bar.

  Parson lingered behind.

  “If you make trouble for us,” he said softly, “I’m gonna break your spine.”

  They left.

  No-limit credit cards. Sapphire earrings. And threats of bodily harm. I was coming up in the world.

  Five minutes later, I was standing around the corner of the hotel, watching each of them drive out of the parking garage. Shearman chauffeured Barrett in a Mercedes sedan. Parson scraped the bottom of the curb with his red Chrysler 300C.

  No sports car with fishhook treads. No dually.

  I shrugged to myself. It had been worth a shot.

  AGE SEVENTEEN

  The office park where Gallison Engineering & Equipment made its home was beyond quiet, as Saturday night ticked over into Sunday morning. Just me, and Dono, and the occasional squirrel, startled by our truck cruising slowly behind the building without its headlights on.

  Willard had chosen the truck well. The little white pickup could be a landscaper’s, or a utility truck, or a personal vehicle. As a bonus, the hard plastic cover over the truck bed had hinges and stiff pneumatics to open and stay open, like a box top. Or a coffin.

  Dono came to a stop at a precise spot, right under the fourth-floor window I’d been examining the day before.

  He handed me a burner phone. “Don’t forget this.” Like I would have left it behind. I plugged my headset into it.

  “You remember the
right frequencies?” I said, pointing to the police scanner. He had already programmed the SPD dispatch channels in, I knew. I was just giving my grandfather shit for treating me like I was in kindergarten.

  I shouldered the backpack, which contained most of the gear I’d need during the next hour or so, and walked quickly around the corner of the building. I wore a black baseball cap and dark, long-sleeved Henley and black sweatpants with running shoes. Except for the surgical gloves, I could have been out for a jog.

  A small delivery door near the loading ramp had a Schlage-brand deadbolt, a six-pin model from a few years ago. With the lockpick gun, I had it open in one minute. From there, it was thirty paces across the dark mailroom to the hall, and another twenty-four to the same stairwell I’d used before.

  At every corner I paused and listened, for patrolling guards, or cleaners, or anything at all. I was in no rush. Not yet.

  Opening the door of Gallison was the part that made me nervous. Not that it was tough. I had the keycard; how much easier could it get? But the doors and walls were windowless. No way to tell if some GE&E employee might be behind one, still at his work computer at midnight, frantic to make a deadline. I took an earbud out for a moment to listen hard at the door. Nothing.

  I took a deep breath and swiped the card. The scanner gave an answering chirp, and the thunk of the lock opening sounded as loud as a hammer whacking an anvil in the empty hall. I opened the door a few inches and stuck my head in for a look. The place was dim and deserted, every third ceiling light glowing with minimal wattage. I exhaled.

  North wall. Third room from the end. The secure storage room with the small fortune in optical lenses had a keypad code for its lock. I could beat the lock, and without even burning a lot of time. But the guy who’d sold Dono’s fence, Hiram, all of the information about the lenses had also known the code. Some underpaid or laid-off desk jockey, probably. The human element could screw up even the best security, and Gallison wasn’t exactly a bank vault. A quick punch of 4-1-4-3 and I was in.

  Once the door was closed behind me, the room seemed pitch-black. My eyes gradually picked up a faint blue glow from the night sky through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I tapped the microphone button. One beep to Dono. One beep in reply. It was safe to talk.